Just a Dream
by listrant
Summary: A one shot "extra" for my other Sherlolly story, Heart Attack. It's chapter 3 of that story from Sherlock's perspective.


[This one shot is an "extra" from my other story, Heart Attack. It's Chapter 3 of that story from Sherlock's perspective. I recommend reading at least that far in that story before reading this. This was partially inspired by the Nelly song of the same name, if you're looking for a soundtrack.]

The details came, as always, in flashes. Hands on the smooth black fabric of Molly's dress. Another man's hands. The creamy white skin on the long column of her exposed neck. Tiny patches of red glaring out in the semi-darkness: her nails and lips. Her lips curving into a pleased little smile as he bent to whisper something in her ear. The hands roaming freely up her body now. Pulling the clip out of her hair. Burying his face in the soft brown strands. He could imagine how it smelled. The same sweet floral scent she wore sometimes in the lab, but stronger.

The scent pulled him out of the crowded club and back to St. Bart's. Molly gazing at him across lab bench. Her lab coat brushing his trousers as she stood beside him. Molly laughing quietly over something John had said.

"You can have me…" her voice breaking as she said those words.

"What do you need?" she asked him in his most desperate moment.

"It's about every time. Always…" Tears in her eyes the last time he'd seen her.

Back to the club again. The man pulled his head up to look back at him…and now it was Moriarty holding Molly. She didn't seem to notice the change, continuing to writhe sensually against him. Sherlock tried to pull him off of her, but he was frozen in place by some invisible force.

Jim laughed and massaged her neck with one hand while the other cupped a breast.

"You've never touched her like this…and you never will," Moriarty taunted. "Poor little Molly. So hot for you. Soaking wet and practically panting." Jim bent down to place a kiss on Molly's neck. Again, Sherlock strained to do something, but he was still paralyzed.

"Pathetic virgin. All talk and no action. He'd never be able to make you cum." Moriarty looked up to make eye contact again as he spoke in Molly's ear.

"No matter, my friend. I'll take care of her. I owe you," Moriarty smiled at him cruelly.

Molly turned and began to passionately kiss Jim. But Sherlock could taste her on his own tongue. And when she ran her fingers through Moriarty's hair, the feeling made Sherlock shiver. He found himself hoping Moriarty would grab her ass, unzip her dress, pull it down and take one of her breasts in his mouth. As soon as the desires crossed Sherlock's mind, Moriarty fulfilled them. Sherlock felt himself growing rapidly harder, his pulse racing as he watched them. They weren't in the club anymore but in his bedroom at Baker Street. Molly stroked Moriarty through his trousers and Sherlock groaned and shut his eyes as he felt her touch run down his own length. When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't playing the voyeur any longer, he'd taken Moriarty's place.

"Sherlock…" Molly moaned breathlessly, before leaning up to kiss him while her hands were busy undressing him. Sherlock pushed her dress, which was bunched around her waist now, and it slid down to the floor. His erection became almost painful when he realized she wasn't wearing _anything_ underneath it.

"No knickers, Miss Hooper? Naughty," Sherlock choked out.

Molly giggled and looked sheepishly up into his eyes. "That dress is too tight. I'd have lines."

Sherlock pushed Molly back on the bed and he felt her eyes on him as he finished taking off the rest of his clothes. He climbed on top of her and slid inside of her immediately. He groaned with pleasure at the tight, wet heat.

"Ah, yes, Sherlock!" Molly yelled as he began to move.

"Sherlock! Sher! Sherlock!"

Sherlock woke up gasping and jerked up into a sitting position. His eyes flew around the darkened bedroom.

There was an outline in the door. John.

"Are you awake now? Sherlock? Are you okay? I came down for a glass of water and you were really loud and…restless. Again."

"Fine," Sherlock cleared his throat when the word came out as a hoarse gasp.

"I'm fine," he repeated.

"Is it the same dream every night?"

"More or less."

"That's what? Five nights now?"

"I don't know. What does it matter? Go back to bed," Sherlock grumbled, hoping that the room was dark enough and the covers were thick enough to conceal his raging hard on. He turned his back to John, just be safe.

"You still don't want to talk about it?"

Sherlock sighed. "No. Go back to bed."

"Alright. Goodnight." Sherlock merely grunted and held perfectly still until he heard John start to climb the stairs.

Then he pushed back the sheets and reached down to take care of the problem. It didn't take long, he'd been so close. The dream had never gone that far before. John was wrong…it was more like 10 times now. He'd been having it every few days since Molly left St. Bart's several weeks ago and every time it went a little farther. Every time he woke up more aroused. Sherlock went into the bathroom and cleaned up and then started pulling his clothes on. He had to get out of there. He had to think.

The chilly air outside helped to clear his head a little and he set off walking in a random direction.

_What did it mean?_ He must have asked himself that question a thousand times now. He'd been denying the most obvious answer for weeks, but it was impossible to pretend any longer. He wanted Molly Hooper in the worst way. _Why now?_ Why had these dreams, these urges, sprung up as soon as she'd left St. Bart's? It didn't matter. The important question was: what was he going to do about it? Because something did have to be done about it. It was incredibly distracting. And then there was the fact that he was finding it nearly impossible to make any progress on this case without her. He'd thought she'd be easy to replace, but he'd been wrong. Everyone else was either uncooperative or incompetent. Damn, Molly Hooper. She was ruining everything. Her absence at the hospital was ruining his days. Her presence in his dreams was ruining his nights.

Sherlock was slightly stunned when he realized where his legs had taken him while he'd been thinking. He was only about a block away from Molly's flat now. He checked his watch. It was just after 2 in the morning…but it was Sunday morning. Was she still awake? He decided that he might as well satisfy his curiosity and check if her lights were on. He crossed to the opposite side of the street from her building; it'd be easier to see into her third floor windows from there. All Molly windows faced the front of the building…and they were all turned off. Asleep, then. Interesting since he'd noticed that in the days before she'd left the hospital she hadn't been getting much sleep.

Sherlock leaned back against the cold bricks of the building behind him. This was as good a place to think as any, he reasoned. _What was he going to do about Molly Hooper?_

Suddenly two dark figures turned the corner a ways down and started strolling down the opposite side of the street. A couple, returning from a late date no doubt, judging by the height of the woman's heels and the way she clung to the man's arm. The sounds of a feminine laugh drifted over to him across the pavement and Sherlock quickly ducked back into the shadows of a nearby doorway. He knew that laugh. Apparently Molly wasn't asleep.

Molly and her date slowed as they approached the door to her building. Who was he? The American from the club that night? Probably. The height and build were a match, and he knew Molly hadn't been seeing anyone else before that. They were talking, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. They came to a stop and Molly moved in front of the man. _What was his name? Jeff something?_ The change in position threw Molly under the glow of a streetlight. She was wearing a dress Sherlock had never seen her in before. It was light (white? Hard to tell in this light) and tight on top but the skirt flared out. And it was short. Really short. She _have_ to wear knickers under this one; it'd be dangerous not to. Whoa. Why had he thought that? Oh right. The dream. _My god, had his pulse just sped up at the memory?_ No. No. Couldn't be.

Molly shook out her loose hair and tilted her head as she looked up Jeff. Obvious flirtation. Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave his head a slow shake. He was…annoyed. Yes, that must be it. It was so annoying to watch average people and the silly little games they played. Her date was obviously more than interested…why all the posturing?

Jeff wrapped his arms around Molly, bunching the fabric of her dress as he swept his hands up over her behind before settling them on her lower back. This was even more…annoying. Jeff's head slowly lowered toward Molly's, but he suddenly stopped and said something. Molly giggled and nodded before bringing her arms up around his neck. They kissed and Sherlock felt a strange weight settle in his chest. What was this? The feeling was totally foreign to him. Tense? Was he tense? Sherlock jumped slightly and forced himself to recline casually against the wall, but it felt wrong and did nothing to relieve the…discomfort in his chest. This was so strange. He should turn around. Maybe he'd feel better if he didn't look. But he couldn't look away. _Why was this happening to him?_ He'd felt nothing like this in the dream when she'd been with Moriarty. Then he'd felt only aroused, now he felt anything but.

Molly's body tensed up and Sherlock could tell she was leaning, pulling away, trying to end the kiss. Without thinking, Sherlock had taken two steps out of his hiding place when Jeff let her go just a few seconds later. _What the hell?_ He thought as he jumped back into the darkness.

Molly and Jeff exchanged a few more words and she leaned up to give him a quick kiss, before going through her door alone. Jeff lingered for a few seconds in front of the door. When he walked away, Sherlock started to follow him, but then whipped back around and shook himself off like a wet dog. Why would he go after that guy? _What was wrong with him?_

Lights came on in Molly's windows, but her curtains were drawn and he couldn't see anything aside from a few unidentifiable shadows. Nevertheless, he stood and watched, his mind strangely empty, until the windows went dark about a half an hour later.

As Sherlock walked back to Baker St., he found that he desperately craved a cigarette. But John still had his emergency stash hidden. He'd have to settle for a patch. Or four. This annoyed him much more than usual. In truth, he was a lot more than annoyed. He was angry, frustrated, totally on edge. He felt like Molly had given him some terrible disease that was making him act and feel all wrong and he was desperate to be rid of it.

No. No. There was nothing wrong with him. He was just sexually attracted to Molly. That must be the cause of his strange behavior. This was just a totally normal biologically programmed reaction designed to ensure the continuation of the species. Just a cocktail of hormones running through his veins. Nothing more. Sure, he was usually able to keep things like that in check. But he was human and occasionally these things were bound to slip through. Like what happened up at Dartmoor. Like the Irene Adler situation. No big deal. He could handle this problem as well as he'd taken care of those. He'd get this drug out of his system and everything would return to normal.

He just needed to get Molly Hooper out of his system and everything would be fine.

Fine.


End file.
